The Whisper

by Carla Neggers

  Not far away, people who’d lived on these shores more than a thousand years ago had fashioned a bronze cauldron, gold brooches and torcs, glass bangles and beads. Someone—they’d never know who—had slipped them into an island cave. They would be returned to the Irish. They were a national treasure. Josie supposed she might see them for herself one day, but, she had to admit, she was in no hurry.

  “I’ll be back in London tomorrow,” she told Eddie O’Shea, the barman. “I’ll enjoy my Irish whiskey tonight.”

  “You’re ready to be home.”

  She smiled. “So I am.”

  Will and Lizzie were there. Apparently her father was in town, too. Josie looked forward to meeting the legendary Harlan Rush. Simon and Keira had already returned to Boston. Of course, she was painting again. Josie had never had a doubt that she would, and soon.

  After explaining what they’d been up to in Ireland to the guards and delivering Percy Carlisle to them, she and Myles had three days together at Keira’s little cottage up the lane. Josie sipped her Midleton, savoring the memories. He could have told her where he was going—she had the proper security clearances—but he hadn’t.

  “Ah, Eddie, she could always drink me under the table, this one could.”

  It was his voice, but she blamed the whiskey and the cold, dark Irish night. She couldn’t possibly have conjured up Myles Fletcher onto the bar stool next to her. Maybe he’d never come to her that late-September morning in Kenmare a week ago. Maybe she’d conjured him up then, too, and she’d searched for Percy Carlisle with an illusion and made love to a perfect figment of her imagination.

  “I’ll have a pint of Guinness.”

  Josie put down her drink and looked at the man next to her. “You look and sound just like someone I know,” she told him.

  He touched the rim of her glass and peered at the amber liquid. “Just how much whiskey have you had, love?”

  “Not enough.”

  He smiled at her, his gray eyes crinkling in that way that was pure Myles Fletcher. There was no use pretending. He was there.

  “If you leave me again,” she said, “I’ll smother you with a pillow.”

  “Ah, there you have it,” Eddie O’Shea said, setting a pint in front of Myles. “She could do it, too.”

  “If you’re smothering me with a pillow, love, it means you’re in bed with me. I’d die a happy man.”

  Eddie roared with laughter, and Josie felt her cheeks warm with a blush, probably her first since she’d turned thirteen.

  Myles drank some of his Guinness, but his eyes were serious now. “I’m ready for a desk, Josie.”

  She snorted. “The hell you are.”

  “Your boy needs a man in his life. His dad’s fine, but he spends more time with you. You’re too soft on him.”

  Josie rolled her eyes.

  “He’ll be a fine big brother one day. It’ll be good for him, having a tot or two running after him.”

  That brought her up short. “Myles.” Damn if she didn’t have tears in her eyes. “You just wandered off again a few days ago.”

  “I had to know that I could do this,” he said. “Now I do.”

  “I’ve always known you could.”

  “That’s what kept me going,” he whispered, brushing a finger over a tear on her cheek. “For two years, Josie, I counted on your certainty. And I knew I had your love.”

  “All right, then.” She sniffled, collecting herself. “Shall we take our drinks by the fire and sit a while?”

  He eased onto his feet. “I’ll carry your drink, love.” He winked at her. “In case you swoon. Wouldn’t want you to spill your whiskey.”

  She glanced back at the barman. “Keep the number for the guards handy, Eddie. I might kill him right here in your pub.”

  Eddie grinned at them both. Myles set their drinks on a small table by the fire. Josie sat close to him and took his hand into hers. All was well in her world. Not simple, she thought, but well.

  35

  Sophie climbed onto a rock outcropping with a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree view of the ocean. Just across the water, the jagged ridges of the Iveragh Peninsula were outlined against a stunning clear blue sky. Tim had dropped her off and was waiting just offshore in his boat.

  Scoop was already there. Her life had changed, she thought. It had changed the moment Tim O’Donovan had told her his story about hidden Celtic treasure, a haunted island and priests who’d held their secret close, and she’d gone exploring.

  A lark, a break from work, a way to face her fears about the future—whatever had driven her here had led her to a man she loved with all her heart and soul.

  He sat on a boulder as if he didn’t have a fear in the world. But she knew that wasn’t true, and it was good. “Hey, Sophie,” he said. “I knew it would involve an adventure to find you.”

  “Did Tim bring you out here?”

  “Nope. I’m not coming between you two.”

  She frowned and thought a moment. She’d flown to Ireland two days ago to join her worried family in Kenmare and reassure them. Damian, her FBI agent rake of a brother, had met her there.

  That was it. “Damian,” she said. “My brother got you out here.”

  “Maybe it was the fairies.”

  She laughed. “Anything is possible.” But she looked down toward the entrance to the cave. “Percy is recovering in London. He’s putting his house in Boston on the market. He’ll continue to serve on the museum board of trustees, but I doubt he’ll ever live in Boston again.”

  “Have you seen him?”

  She shook her head. “He would hate it that I feel bad for him. He’s always assumed that I’ve thought he doesn’t measure up to his father, but that’s just his own sense of inadequacy coming through. It’s unfair to make that sort of comparison. In his case, it also proved dangerous.”

  “Helen resented her own failings and inadequacies, at least as she perceived them.”

  “Why wasn’t I one of Jay Augustine’s victims?”

  “You were.”

  “He didn’t kill me.”

  “Cliff Rafferty was with him, for one thing. For another, Augustine latched on to the narrative of a mother and daughter when he heard the story about the stone angel. That’s what he did. He latched on to narratives. He was obsessed with an old murder in Boston—with the devil and evil.”

  “What I found was pagan Celtic.”

  “Which he wanted purely for profit. Scaring you and leaving you for dead were a bonus.”

  “He was already a killer then.”

  “As far as we can tell, he hadn’t killed anyone in several years. He needed the narrative.”

  “He didn’t know Tim’s story. He only had what Helen told him to go on. Percy was terrified he’d done something terrible, but he couldn’t put the pieces together. He didn’t know that Helen had chosen to embrace a way of thinking, believing and living. She romanticized and twisted bits and pieces of what she knew of Celtic history, culture and traditions—interpreted the past to rationalize her own identity and desires.”

  “Good analysis, Agent Malone.”

  She smiled suddenly. “John March and Wendell Sharpe have asked me to consult from time to time on art recovery cases.”

  “You can still be a professor.”

  “Most certainly. I have a real shot at that tenure-track position in Boston I told you about. Then there’s the Boston-Cork conference in April. My hockey players.”

  Scoop winked at her. “Life is good.”

  “My brother tells me you have a new job.”

  “Yeah. It’s what happens when you get blown up. They promote you.”

  “You’re a man of courage and integrity, Scoop, but you’re also very kind. And sexy.”

  “I’m not making love to you out here on these rocks.”

  She laughed. “My family can’t wait to meet you. Taryn’s taking a break from acting. Tim swept her up from the table last night in the pub and danced with her. That was it.
I think she wants a different life. She’s going to stay in Kenmare and see what happens.”

  “Keira and Simon are inviting you to their wedding. They’re working out the details to get married when they’re here at Christmas. Will and Lizzie will be next. Who knows with those two? They could get married in Dublin, Boston, Las Vegas, London, Scotland. My guess is it’ll be the old Rush place on the Maine coast.”

  “New lives getting started.”

  He stared out at the rugged mountains across the sparkling bay. “Bob and I figured out what to do with the triple-decker. We’re busting up into the attic and adding stairs. My brothers and some of his friends from Southie are taking a look. We’ll each have two floors.”

  “That’s a lot of room.”

  He looked at her. “Yeah, it is. It’ll have shiny new floors and white walls. Office space. Lots of light. It’s close to Logan to go back and forth to Ireland.”

  “You like it here,” she said.

  “I do, but I was thinking of you.”

  “Scoop.”

  “Tim O’Donovan figures we should have an Ireland honeymoon after the Cork end of the April conference.”

  “He does, does he?”

  “I love you, Sophie. I want to marry you.”

  “When did you decide this?”

  “The day we met in an Irish ruin.”

  She smiled. “I knew it then, too. It was love at first sight.” She leaned against him, felt his lips brush the top of her head. “I love you, Scoop.”

  A gust of wind blew in from the west, but she wasn’t cold, and she realized the only whispers she heard now were those of the ocean waves.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  One of the great pleasures of writing The Whisper has been the opportunity it’s given me to explore Ireland in so many different ways—through trips, books, Internet sites, music, art and friends. While in Kenmare last September, I was introduced to a thick, gorgeous book that I couldn’t resist and highly recommend: The Iveragh Peninsula: A Cultural Atlas of the Ring of Kerry, edited by John Crowley and John Sheehan. I also read numerous books on Irish history, archaeology and the Celts, including The Celts, by T.G.E. Powell; The World of the Celts, by Simon James; Pagan Celtic Ireland: The Enigma of the Irish Iron Age, by Barry Raftery; Celtic Art, by Ruth and Vincent Megaw. My deepest appreciation goes to these scholars and their work.

  Many thanks to my cousin Gregory Harrell for his insights into the work of an Internal Affairs detective, and to my daughter, Kate Jewell, a doctoral student in history, for her help and expertise. My husband and I rushed back from Ireland to welcome her and Conor’s firstborn, who decided to arrive a bit early. That very morning Joe and I had hiked a gorgeous trail on the Beara Peninsula, not far from where baby Leo’s paternal great-great-grandfather was born.

  Finally, a special thank you to Margaret Marbury and Adam Wilson at MIRA Books, and to Jodi Reamer at Writers House for all you do.

  ISBN: 978-1-4268-5983-0

  THE WHISPER

  Copyright © 2010 by Carla Neggers.

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